Touch and Go
by lynne-monstr
Summary: Takes place during the 2007 Christmas Bloodbath. After the encounter with France, Austria, and Hungary, Prussia is shaken up and France pays a visit to his house to talk things over. Genfic.


_A/N - After rereading the 2007 event, most everyone seemed willing to strip down for France, but Prussia kind of freaked the hell out. This is my attempt at an explanation._

_Note: contains mention of sexual harassment.  
_

* * *

The moment France let him go, Prussia bolted, the heat in his face an almost painful counterpoint to the chill in the air around him. Clumsy, cold-numbed fingers fumbled at his chest in a futile attempt to re-button his shirt, flapping wildly around him in the wind as he ran through the darkened streets. His feet pounded harshly against the pavement with each stride, a steady patter that was his only thought until he was back at home behind his front door, lock and deadbolt engaged, a sturdy barrier between himself and the rest of the world. Breathing heavily, he leaned his forehead against the closed door and let his eyes fall closed, grateful for the cold that seeped into his flushed skin from the wood.

Hands moving quickly with regained dexterity, he worked at each tiny button of his shirt by feel alone, not stopping until all of them, save for the constricting one at the very top, were securely in place. He didn't bother tucking the shirt back in.

"Stupid, stupid," he muttered to himself. He felt like the world's most pathetic loser, freaking out so publicly at a little nudity. And in front of Austria, no less. Austria, who was completely unfazed by the same situation and was probably laughing about it with Hungary right now as they strolled the Christmas market arm-in-arm together.

Groaning, he picked his head up and let it fall back against the door, forehead hitting the solid wood with a thud. The pain felt good, better than the embarrassment at least, so he did it again.

It was a dumb thing to get freaked out about, Prussia knew. He'd spent most of his life at war and was accustomed to the lack of privacy that came with it, living and traveling and fighting with others in such close quarters. But those were all men. Soldiers, fighting towards a common cause. The city streets, filled with civilians and women going about their business, was different. Maybe it was the staunch religious background he never managed to completely shake, but he couldn't stand the thought of being exposed in public like that. He didn't care if the others did it, had actually enjoyed giving Austria shit about it (and fuck, why the fuck did he do that, he should've just gone home), but _he_ didn't want to do it. Especially didn't want to be forced into it by someone who was supposed to be his fucking _friend_.

Deep under the stupid mess of feelings, he knew that France honestly didn't mean to upset him. His old friend loved being naked in almost any situation and in his enthusiasm sometimes forgot that not everyone enjoyed it as much as he did. Prussia shoved that train of thought aside. Because that asshole should have fucking remembered. If not to be a halfway decent friend, then because Prussia had kicked him in the crotch the first time France had unsuccessfully tried to convince him to go parading in the nude, back in the early days of their friendship. France knew full well how he felt about that shit.

He didn't do it on purpose, Prussia reminded himself, not wanting to overreact.

But the memory washed over him again, and he tensed, remembering the helplessness he'd felt when France, who he trusted, tried to strip him of his clothes in the middle of the street. He'd panicked, totally and completely, centuries upon centuries of combat experience fleeing like it had never existed, leaving him frozen and defenseless.

Repulsion warred with self-loathing at the remembrance. He didn't know which was worse: that France, who'd known him long enough to know better, had done that to him; or that instead of getting his shit together and reacting with a well-placed fist and a scathing quip, he'd thrashed and whimpered and begged to be released.

A knocking at the door he was still leaning against made Prussia jump back, heart pounding anew. Instinctively, his right hand flew to his pocket, but there was nothing there and his hand closed around empty air. It was bad form to roam the city armed these days. He cursed the delicate nature of the modern world and debated running to the kitchen or to his room for a weapon.

"Prussia! I know you're in there."

Shit. It was France, the absolute last person he wanted to see right now.

"Fuck off, Frenchie!" he shouted through the door. It was a lame insult, but whatever. He opened his mouth, on the verge of adding, _Leave me alone_, but aborted at the last minute, not wanting to sound petulant. Or even worse, scared.

"Prussia, please."

The voice came again and Prussia clenched his fists at his sides, grounding himself in the pain of nails digging into skin. Why couldn't that fucker just leave. Hadn't he already done enough for one night.

But France's voice didn't stop, and the knocking came again. "Come on, let me in."

Prussia felt a flare of satisfaction that it was France now doing the pleading, but it was short-lived. France wasn't the one who'd been humiliated in front of not one, but two longtime rivals. One of which he'd repeatedly mocked for being a sissy.

Fuck, he thought, rubbing at his forehead. What a disaster of a night. "No!" he repeated, louder this time. "Fuck off!"

"It's cold out, Prussia. Let me in."

Jesus, Prussia thought, that good for nothing, wine-drinking bastard wouldn't give it up. He sneered at the door and spun around, walking away towards his basement rooms, where he wouldn't have to listen to this bullshit anymore. A quiet night spent cleaning his guns sounded perfect right about now.

He'd only taken a handful of steps when France's next words stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm sorry, Prussia. It was a thoughtless mistake." There was a pause and Prussia waited, curious if that was it. It wasn't. "I'm trying to apologize, here, you stubborn ass. Please open the door."

Nations, as an unwritten rule, rarely apologized to each other. History was what it was, and most of the decisions were made by the humans anyway. The minutiae of their daily lives seemed to pale in comparison to that, and so they rarely felt the need to say such words to one another. If France was doing it now, he must be feeling like all kinds of crap.

Good, thought Prussia. He was feeling pretty shitty, too, and was more than happy to share. But his feet remained stuck in place and he couldn't bring himself to leave. Maybe it was the words so rarely spoken; or France's tone, buzzing with genuine regret and a hint of anxiety, remorse hidden in the elongated vowels. Sighing, Prussia turned around and opened the door.

France was wearing the same light button down and jeans, still stupidly underdressed for the harsh winter. His face was red with the cold, breath coming out short frozen puffs. One hand was raised as if to knock again, and he awkwardly let it drop by his side.

"You look like shit," Prussia greeted. "You can come in. But don't think you're staying long." With that, he stepped aside and let his old friend through. He closed the door quickly afterwards, not wanting any more of the cold to seep in to the entranceway.

France cocked a half grin, but the strain behind it was easy to see. "Are you going to offer me something warm to drink? A sweater perhaps?"

"No," Prussia answered, arms crossed. "You know where everything is. Get it yourself."

Instead of heading deeper into the house, France took a step towards him. "For earlier, I'm—" he cut himself off as Prussia instinctively took a large step back at his approach, fists raised. Immediately, France took a step backward as well, palms outstretched in the universal gesture for peace. "I didn't mean to upset you before. I wasn't thinking. I should have known, and I'm sorry."

The words were true, but Prussia wasn't willing to give up his anger. Anger felt a fuck of a lot better than what was underneath. He did, however, drop the defensive stance, straightening up from the slight crouch and unballing his hands. Already, he was regretting the automatic reaction, hating that it gave away how on edge he still was.

He put the thought out of his mind and shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever. It's over and I'm past caring."

France nodded and put his hands down, not calling him out on the blatant lie. He turned and walked into the kitchen. Reluctantly, Prussia followed.

"How are you feeling?" France asked, tone light, as if they were discussing the weather or something equally as trivial. He poured tap water into an electric water heater sitting on the countertop next to the stove, setting it back on its base and flicking the switch.

Prussia clenched his jaw. France knew full well how he was feeling, or he wouldn't have asked. He felt humiliated and angry and like a good friend had broken his trust. Pulling a chair back from the kitchen table with more force than was necessary, he dropped into it, leaving France to do whatever the hell he was doing. He didn't particularly care.

"I'm fine. I'm over it, so stop asking."

France made a humming noise, seemingly intent on his task, and crossed the kitchen to rummage around the pantry, methodically searching each shelf. He came up with a box of tea so long neglected that Prussia hadn't even known it was in there. Depositing a bag in each mug, he poured the almost boiling water into the twin cups and came to the table.

"For you," he said, placing one of the mugs in front of Prussia.

"You've been spending way too much time with England," he muttered in response.

France unfortunately didn't rise to the bait, simply set his own mug down and took a seat across the table.

Tea was the last thing Prussia wanted, but he was happy to have something to do with his hands, and wrapped them around the mug. And bonus, if France pissed him off, he was in a perfect position to throw the steaming mug at him. Or just beat him over the head with it.

Neither of them said anything, and France took a sip of his tea. He grimaced and set the mug back down, wrapping his hand around it in a mirror of Prussia's position. The silence was heavy between them, thick and suffocating and uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," France said again, dragging his gaze up to meet Prussia's.

"Stop fucking saying it!" Prussia's voice rang out through the air like an explosion and he squeezed harder around the mug until a sharp burning pain lanced through his fingertips. Quickly letting go, he shook out his hands to cool them down.

"Do you want to talk about it?" France asked quietly.

"No," he said through clenched teeth, burned fingers forgotten.

Because he didn't. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about it, didn't want to remember it. That moment when he was unable to get away, couldn't believe this was happening to him, and his body wouldn't cooperate, refused to fight back, and he was left humiliated, defenseless, and _begging_ for France to stop. "I want to shoot something."

Abruptly, Prussia stood, the chair making a harsh screeching sound as it was pushed back. Picking up both mugs, he walked over to the sink. "You can see yourself out now."

Turning his back, he poured the contents down the sink, dropped the sopping tea bags into the garbage, and proceeded to meticulously wash both mugs. The hot water burned his hands but he didn't care. There was the scraping of a chair and the rustle of clothes, and Prussia's spine stiffened as the space between his shoulder blades itched, but he refused to look behind him and refused to stop washing.

Footsteps rang out, moving away towards the kitchen's exit and finally Prussia turned his head. "You're leaving?" he asked.

France gave a sad smile. "Yes. As you requested." He inclined his head and walked away, disappearing around the corner that lead to the front door.

Watching him go, it was hard to hold the anger as close. He was still mad, still hurt, but he didn't have many friends and France was one of his closest. Their friendship had survived countless wars, had endured despite the horrible, violent, bloody things they'd done to each other. For fuck's sake, France had helped formally abolish the last remnants of his fucking government and they had worked past that. Turning off the tap with a muttered curse, Prussia rushed to the front door, not bothering to dry his hands. Scanning the area, he saw movement at the edge of the property, France's head of blonde hair standing out like a beacon as he hurried briskly away.

"France!" he yelled out. "Hey, fucker, wait!"

Even in the darkness of night, he could see France pause mid-step, waiting frozen in place with his back to the house. It was cold and Prussia hadn't grabbed a jacket, so he needed to make this quick. Walking quickly, he approached and circled France until they were face to face, deliberately putting himself within arm's reach. Whether it was to show his lack of fear, to serve as some sort of test, or was a gesture of trust, even he didn't know.

Now that he was here, Prussia wasn't sure what to say.

France remained silent, waiting for him to speak.

He took a deep breath and looked directly into clear blue eyes that, for once, gave nothing away. France was usually so easy to read but now he was a blank wall. Unmoving, waiting. It was disconcerting to see his old friend closed off that like and Prussia didn't like it one bit.

"Apology accepted," he said at last.

The rigid set of France's shoulders eased and his lips curled into a soft echo of his usual carefree smile. He nodded and stepped in towards Prussia before catching himself, jerking backwards and simply extending his arm, turning the aborted embrace into a handshake.

Prussia felt much of his own tension leave him, and he took the offered hand, clasping it firmly. After a beat, he changed his mind and pulled France in, throwing his free arm around his friend's back. France didn't hesitate before doing the same and then they were hugging as if they hadn't seen each other for years. Or like a pair of teenage girls, Prussia thought, snorting to himself at the mental picture that brought up.

They stayed like that until France finally spoke. "Your hand is wet and it feels disgusting." He extricated his own hand and wiped it on his jeans with a grimace.

Prussia laughed, feeling a little bit better for the first time since he entered the house. "You weren't worth the effort of drying them." He paused, thinking. "Want to come in for a drink? A real one this time, not that shitty ass tea."

"I would, but I have a busy night ahead of me."

Prussia nodded. If he was honest with himself, he was disappointed but also relieved that his offer had been declined. They would be fine, the two of them and their friendship, but Prussia wanted a couple days to sort himself out, to sift through the pit of feelings that weren't quite gone and put them to rest.

He smiled at France. "Best get to it then."

With a last smile and a nod, they parted, France to wreak more Christmas havoc, and Prussia returning back inside. He relaxed as he reentered the warmth of his house. A couple of beers, his collection of firearms, and his assortment of brushes, cleaning rags, and gun oils sounded like a pretty damn perfect Christmas.


End file.
